


(Don't) Let Me Go

by fairyminseok



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyminseok/pseuds/fairyminseok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minseok is always the first to tell Lu Han when he’s being dramatic, when he should stop, move on. But he can’t help it; first loves are dramatic, unstoppable, a constant haunting that comes to breathe in his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Don't) Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: drug use, cigarette use, mentions of depression, self-inflicted emotional abuse, weird colour symbolism, angst, weird timeline. 
> 
> The main story is told linearly, but the italics (past) and the phone calls (random) are not.

**Meraki;  
\- To do something with soul, creativity, or love; when you leave a piece of yourself behind in your work. **

-‘๑’-

\---

_You put a fever inside me_  
And I've been cold since you left

\---

“It’s like I just came to exist one day, purely for the benefit of him; an ideal formulated by his very hands, by the charcoal that never wears down. Everything I did, thought, felt, it was like I was trapped. But I couldn’t hate him, because it wasn’t his fault, it was never his fault. But at the same time, he was so fucking selfish, only seeing the perfection he thought we were, and never the pain that hid behind my eyes.

Sometimes I wish I had taken self portraits, but that wasn’t in the contract, that wasn’t in his daydream when his hands flew across paper to create my life. I only existed when he needed me, and I had never quite understood the definition of trapped; was naive, innocent, loving by nature.

His.”

\---

Normally, one would see the seasonal year as beginning in Spring; where life starts, winter washing away to let blossoms burst forth.

Lu Han’s story, it begins in Autumn; with the school bells and the dropping temperatures, trees shedding their layers to become barren, rows of dead creatures swaying with the wind, but no longer vibrant. 

This is when Lu Han likes to begin his portfolio, likes to take his sketchbook everywhere, draw the life, the hidden secrets, the dark corners of the season. 

He likes to showcase the bright colours, cascading leaves fanning around him, falling onto the canvas of his sketchbook, only to be traced into something beautiful. He usually sits on _the steps_ \-- the ones that were once _their steps_ \-- fingers absently tracing the cracks between faded bricks, the tiniest of smiles jumping across his lips. 

The thing about memories is that they never really announce their arrival, and they never tell anyone what they're bringing. 

This time it’s a friendly memory, crescent moon eyes and laughter; Lu Han's scarf wound around the neck of someone else, someone who blushes furiously, hand curled into a fist to hide his face.

Lu Han's tiny smile grows into a wide grin for a short moment, an almost giggle bubbling to his surface before fading away. The thing about memories is that they're not real, they're remembered past tense for a reason; things that were, things that will never happen again. 

and this memory, this particular vivid image with its rosy cheeks and dusty auburn hair, it won't ever return. 

High school was along time ago, and those grown up, those weathered with the weight of their lives, can never be teenagers again, can never be shy, giggling, button nosed youth, ca never experience firsts for a second time. 

For now, the steps are just steps, and Lu Han leans back against the cold concrete, reaching out with quick reflexes to pluck a leaf from the air. He holds it delicately with numb fingers -- he should have worn gloves -- tracing its golden brown edges. Its colour reminds him of the school behind him, building tall and imposing as it catches the rays of morning light glowing gently through thinning trees. 

Another memory comes knocking, flinging open the front door of Lu Han's mind without waiting for an answer, and it's the first day of high school -- his first day of high school -- tie loose and hair artfully messy, an attempt to fit in with his obnoxious group of friends. 

The steps hadn't been _their steps_ yet. That would wait another two years, a place of refuge among tears, bullies, broken lenses, muttered apologies and beautiful flushed cheeks. 

A bell rings somewhere above Lu Han. 

 

It startles him, leaf falling from his fingers, sketchbook snapping closed in his lap. He hasn't gotten enough work done, but he's patient. Memories like to take their time when they visit, crashing on his mind's couch and waking up at all hours of night to create noise. 

Lu Han walks across the front field, avoiding the pathway that's now filled with students, standing out, but taking his time. 

He looks young enough to be a student here; golden locks and dancing eyes enough to charm any 15-year-old girl's heart, but his uniform gives him away, blazer sporting a different school's patch, colours mismatched against the ones of the uniforms passing him as he heads off school grounds. 

Lu Han does to stop to give some 15-year-old girls an award winning smile, resisting the urge to wink when they respond with hushed whispers and reddening cheeks, straightening their skirts and hiding their faces. 

The cracked sidewalks are littered with leaves, nearly picture perfect, oak trees towering overhead, the softest of breezes ruffling Lu Han's hair as he takes his time; heading to his own campus for his own first day. 

He considers taking a photo, but another memory is leaning through an open window and chatting in his ear. 

A boy, dancing down the sidewalk in front of him, brown hair shining, nearly hidden underneath his beanie -- Lu Han's beanie -- camera in his hands. He'd been shorter than Lu Han still, middle school youth still tugging at the sleeves of his oversized school blazer.

He'd taken pictures of everything; the leaves, the sky, the empty road in front of them, of Minseok in his awful rimmed glasses, and of Lu Han. Always Lu Han. 

Taking photos isn't really Lu Han's thing -- he's got a barren instagram account to prove it -- so he puts his phone away and speeds up his steps, sketchbook snugly tucked beneath his arm.

He ends up at a different set of steps, good-natured grin plastered on his face, one that doesn't quite ignite the natural sparkle of his normally bright eyes. 

Jongdae and Baekhyun don't notice his lack of colour, too busy goofing around, oblivious to the mildly jealous stare Minseok send in their direction; though Lu Han is never sure which one of them it's directed towards. 

Minseok glances at Lu Han, smile warm and eyes sympathetic for a brief moment, one that Lu Han never fails to catch. 

"How was Riverview?" Minseok asks, and his voice has that gentle tilt to it, fingers curling around Lu Han's sketchbook with a comforting hum. 

"I was distracted," Lu Han says with a voice too quiet -- the quiet that arrives when one is silent for too long -- sigh parting his lips. They shine as the light hits them, pink and delicate, soft and innocent for the time being. "I didn't get much done."

"Don't you ever consider a new portfolio? With different locations?"

Minseok's question is careless, one they both know Lu Han cannot answer readily. He sighs, sketchbook back in his own lap, fingers carefully fixing his tie. 

"It's tradition," Lu Han says simply, but he gives Minseok a gentle smile, tiniest of sparkles appearing in his gaze. "I appreciate your concern, but it has to be this way."

"Change is the first step in moving on," Is all Minseok says, and his palm is warm as it settles on Lu Han's shoulder. "High school has already gone into the realm of A Really Long Time Ago, and memories filled with wistful sighs won't help you pass economics."

"Fuck economics," Lu Han grumbles, but his spirits are less melancholy and more steady as he accepts the arm thrown around him, lets himself be jostled towards orientation, memories fading and mood lifted.

The thing about memories is that they often leave just as unannounced as their arrival, forgotten and neglected, slipping out while their host is distracted.

\---

Minseok is always the first to tell Lu Han when he’s being dramatic, when he should stop, move on. But he can’t help it; first loves are dramatic, unstoppable, a constant haunting that comes to breathe in his ear.

And Lu Han, he's a naturally dramatic person; everything done in a way that is overdone. Too much expression, too much, a flair for tossing every feeling into art, into a reading out loud of his heart in thoughts that cease to make sense, words that flow backwards.

So here he is, sketchbook still in his lap, legs propped up and eyes on the window, staring out at the decaying trees in his college's courtyard. He's in one of his classes, and that's about as far as his brain has allowed him to go today, notebook open on the desk in front of him, page blank and waiting for the notes that will never come.

He's drawing the scene outside the window, sketching the outlines of a figure in the courtyard, a silhouette leaning against a tree. It's not him, but someone from his past, and Lu Han hums solemnly as he fishes inside his backpack for a silver felt-tip, catching a few words from his professor and hastily scrawling a title to his notes before turning back to the More Important Task.

He's in Statistics apparently, which sucks.

Lu Han shades the hair of the figure silver, enjoying the way it glints on paper next to the monotone of the scene he's created. He debates colouring it in, adding the hues of late morning and the dusky brown of the leaves, but decides that he’s always looked best when allowed to stand out.

And he does stand out, coloured a glowing silver from head to feet, like a tiny angel on Lu Han's paper, causing a tiny grin to stretch across his lips before a frown takes its place. Minseok is going to scold him for sure, say some very Minseok things about how drawing ex-boyfriends is extremely not healthy.

He's right -- of course, always -- but Lu Han continues to stubbornly draw, tracing the patterns of something that he considers putting in the portfolio. Every season would be more complete with a little backstory.

\---

Lu Han skips lunch, breezes out of the school and towards the park; the one with the tallest structures and the train.

That's where he sees it, sees a familiar photo, tattered and pinned, hidden among other advertisements, other photos, lamp-post littered with artists trying to make their way. Lu Han's fingers reach out to touch the paper, to run his fingers across it's cold material surface, worn from the wind.

There are words, a date, an art gallery for an up and coming photographer, a first art show. An introduction of sorts.

 _Colours and Seasons_.

A simple concept, a simple name. And the concept, Lu Han knows it, knows it too well, glancing to his hands, sees them shaking slightly, fingers tight around a sketchbook that contains those same words -- except different -- a sequel.

He recognizes the photo on the cover. And it hurts because of all photos he could have chosen to show himself off to the world, he chooses the one he never took.

Lu Han recognizes the photo because he remembers holding the expensive camera that captured it in his hands, remembers fiddling with the knobs, laughter soft as he asks for help, asks to be shown how to take a photo.

He knows the photo well, because he's the one who took it, the one who looked up at the owner of the camera afterwards with a puppy dog grin, ego swelling from the pride reflected back at him, the comments.

_You're a natural, Lu Han._

_It's just beginner's luck. I'm an artist, not a photographer._

And yet here he is, looking at that very photo, his first photo. The same photo he's tried to recreate with pencil crayons, with fine lined pens, charcoal snapped in half in his struggles.

Lu Han rips the ad straight from the post, dumps the tacks on the ground, balls of a handful of tape and tosses it at a tree, annoyed scream at the tip of his tongue.

And yet he's excited, enthralled, flood of memories rushing through him, emotion.

_Colours and Seasons  
_

A photography exhibition by up and coming photographer, Oh Sehun. 

November 9th, Horton Palace Inn. Entry fee, 4$.

\---

"He's back," Lu Han says, and he's breathing in short harsh gasps, hands in his knees, paper hanging limply from a hand, sketchbook dropping heavily onto the table with a loud thud, one that startles quite a few looks.

Jongdae just looks at him quizzically, eyebrows raised. 

"And?" Baekhyun asks, chin resting in the palm of a relaxed hand, peering up at Lu Han with disinterest.

“You don’t understand,” Lu Han says, throwing himself into a seat next to Jongdae, paper flat in front of him. “He’s back and he’s stealing my ideas.”

“Colours and seasons?” A voice says over Lu Han’s shoulder, quiet and confused. Lu Han whips around in gratitude, stares up at Minseok with wild eyes. 

“I took that photo,” He says, still staring, still wild as Minseok slips in beside him looking mildly concerned. “He’s using my photo, for his own show.”

“Why is he even back in the city?” Minseok asks in muted confusion, reading the fine print, the tiny details Lu Han hadn’t thought to peruse. “You don’t just disappear and show up like this.”

Baekhyun and Jongdae are giving them curious looks across the table, not understanding. They'd met Lu Han post-Sehun, post ... everything.

"But why would he open an exhibition with your portfolio title and with your photo?" Minseok murmurs, eyebrows furrowing.

"To get my attention?" Lu Han muses, and there's a tiny frown on his lips, a tiny stirring in his heart, a confused delayed _thump_.

"He's not that dramatic Lu Han," Minseok says evenly, chewing cutely on the straw of his soy milk, still staring at the advertisement. "He's not you."

"No he's not," Lu Han agrees with a sigh, and he leans back in his chair, licks his lips. "He's subtle. This is subtle. It's just small enough that there was a huge chance I wouldn't notice it. If I hadn't gone to the park I wouldn't have found it."

"And he does know you well," Minseok says slowly, and he's leaning forward now, catching on and believing. "He would know that you would go to that park to sketch. It's that time of year."

"Should I go?" Lu Han asks, and it's quiet, nearly a whisper, conspiratorial even. "I mean -- I just --"

Minseok laughs then, a quiet chuckle, hand on Lu Han's shoulder.

"We both know that you'll go anyways," He says, finally acknowledges Jongdae and Baekhyun across their table with a grin, gives Lu Han a sympathetic glance. "He did disappear on you. I think you deserve to know why."

"You're right," Lu Han says, burying his head in his arms. "I kind of- I've been whining about this for months but I never expected him to actually come back. I'm scared to go."

“You have nothing to fear but yourself.”

Minseok’s words confuse him, but Lu Han is sure in time he’ll understand.

\---

Lu Han starts seeing that same piece of paper everywhere.

It's on the school bulletin board, stopping Lu Han in his early morning wanderings, coffee in hand and muffin halfway in his mouth, shocked that Sehun had been _in his school_ and he hadn't known. 

It's on a hundred more lamp-posts, a hundred more abandoned walls. And the flyers aren't big, they aren't eye catching, but Lu Han spots each one, runs his fingers across them each time, debates taking each one. 

He's afraid.

Sehun is older now, probably different, and yet there's a chance that he's exactly the same, a taller, less innocent version of _his_ Sehun. And that scares Lu Han too. 

Because in a way, he hopes Sehun is the same, hopes he's malleable, joyful; the Sehun he had met, and not the Sehun that had left him. And that's kind of selfish. The thought that Sehun had left because of Lu Han, had left because something between them, something about them wasn't working, was too much. It had been perfect one day, and nothing the next.

And yet Lu Han; Lu Han is still very much the same. He ascends the steps to the gallery where the exhibition is being held, tells the owner that he’s looking for his brother’s phone number. 

_He’s just come back to the city and he’s holding an exhibition here, I’d like to surprise him._

The gallery owner hadn’t cared, scribbling some numbers on a piece of paper and tossing it to Lu Han, a gentle smile and words of luck on her tongue. Lu Han isn’t surprised that he’d gotten it so easily, has always been persuasive, good-looking, hair swept and tongue flicking out to lick across his lips, seductive and flirty. 

He plays dirty, but Sehun is playing dirtier this time.

\---

“Who are you, if not humble?”

The voice crackles over the receiver, far and yet close, so close, breathing down his neck and whispering, crawling across his skin to settle into his lungs. It fills them, causes his entire being to shake, to fear, to become concerned.

“What is the opposite of humble.”

And yet, a blank mind, one that does not absorb the shaking of radiated phone waves, one that clears his lungs, breathes in deeply, unsure of what to say; how to say it. Instead he deflects, eyebrows furrowing, straight jagged lines bending, a typical frown that the other cannot see but can probably feel, probably knows too well.

“How did you get my number?” He asks instead, a maddening change of subject; ignorance of the subject, that he knows will get a rise out of the other, that he knows will affect him.

“The receptionist, at your gallery,” There’s a smirk in the voice. He grimaces, fingers curling tighter over the black receiver, cord dangling and sliding against his skin.

An old phone, out of style. He has no need for cellphones when he rarely exists long enough to pay a bill.

“She’s very gullible,” The smirk continues, and he cannot keep his mind blank long enough when the pressure fills his chest. “Thought I was your brother when I asked for your number. It’s a good thing we nearly look alike, isn’t it?”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” A pause. The licking of lips audible with the way the white noise fades for only a moment. “I asked a question though. Or perhaps you would just like an answer. Conceit, I think it is?”

“We both know,” He starts, stopping to trail the tip of a finger across his faded bangs; once silver now grey, dead and in need of a touch up. “We both know that I am nowhere near conceited. Unless you’ve left me with more than just your memories.”

“I wasn’t the one who left, so forgive me for ignoring that last thing you said,” The voice says, and there’s no longer a smirk in his words. “You know what this is about.”

“The picture?” He asks. The pressure in his lungs deflates, smoke the colour of his hair, of the air around him. “Don’t take it too personally. I needed to let you know somehow that I was back in town.”

“You still have my number, you could have called.”

“And now you have mine,” He says with a shrug, sitting up fully to look beside him, black phone cord curling around his arm like a snake. He frowns, untangling it with a sigh that doesn’t go unnoticed by the voice on the other end.

“Sehun.”

“Lu Han.”

“Well I’m glad you still remember my name,” Lu Han scoffs. It brings a slight smile to Sehun’s lips, a dead kind of smile as he glances at his wall, the immaculately kept shelves. 

Cameras collected over the years, from moments when he was conscious enough, aware enough to grip his lithe limbs around solids, around _things that stay_.

“Why _are_ you back in the city Sehun?”

“There was an opportunity,” Sehun answers. It’s simple, laced with nothing else but honesty, or so he likes to present it as that. 

Honesty. 

He reaches a hand to a grey table, standing quiet and humble beside where he rests; fingers closing around a bottle. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“Of course I missed—“

Sehun tuts, a quiet sound that has Lu Han’s nearly stuttering voice pausing. The smirk is flying away, growing wings to disappear. Lu Han won’t smile again tonight.

“You left without saying anything. You just disappeared, of course I missed you,” Lu Han continues, and it’s with exasperation, a hurried rush of words. 

Sehun can see his pupils dancing, can see his lips curling down in an upset pout and his hands, clenched around the shiniest new phone. “I—“

“And you thought?”

“I … don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you thought?” Sehun keeps some humour in his voice, tries to sound light, frivolous even. 

The heaviness is there, weariness, hollowing him out and sending his insides screeching to a halt.

“I guess I just wanted to hear your voice,” Lu Han mutters through the line. It’s cute – it’s always been cute – and Sehun is affected, marginally, emptiness threatening to fight through and close him.

“Why?” Sehun asks, and he’s leaning back against the wall now, rusted metal of the cheap headboard digging into his shoulder blades. He ignores it, releases another cloud of smoke, lifeless and grey. “After all this time you don’t—“

“I don’t -- ?” Lu Han sounds confused, voice trailing off in a way that echoes Sehun’s, muted and grey. Sehun frowns. He’s always liked Lu Han’s colour, and the lack of it is heavy, weighing down on Sehun’s own dusty colours.

“You’re not angry?” He tries, and his tongue flicks out to his lips. Dry and probably losing colour, as they always do when he spends too much time in the city, too much time with a cigarette pressed against his lips, with pills glowing pretty in the palm of his hands. 

Blue, colourful, nothing like the thoughts that encompass any other part.

There’s a silence now, on the other end of the line, and Sehun tenses, sits up. His panic bursts through in pretty shades of grey, but it subsides when he hears Lu Han’s breathing, shaky through his receiver.

“Just … confused,” Is the answer he finally gets, and Sehun can picture it; Lu Han’s eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments, bottom lip caught between front teeth and grip on his phone loosening. “Upset? Horrified, never angry though.”

 _Not with you_ ”

The last part is said quietly; as if Lu Han is afraid to let the words whisper past his lips, and Sehun feels himself biting past a bitter smirk, more of a grimace in the fading Autumn light. 

“Come to the exhibition.”

“Do you want me there?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to come, if I didn’t want you there.”

A pause. Sehun knows he’s right, hears Lu Han sigh, and this time the words do whisper past his lips.

“I want to be there,” He says, and he sounds firm, as if confirming it to himself and not to Sehun. “We can talk.”

“We can talk,” Sehun agrees, and the blankets feel soft, brain fuzzy and legs heavy as the blue pill swirls, works its way into his system. A sigh escapes his lips as he bids his goodbye, as the phone drops back into its cradle and Sehun can lie back on the bed, can feel the lumps beneath his back. 

Flickering lights; his own. Grey ceiling, illuminated by colours that aren’t there. 

It had been difficult upon his return to calculate what season it was; what season he would use. Sehun is careful though, and he knows Lu Han well, knows him too well. 

He smiles, a gentle loving smile as he burrows deeper into soft, soft, _soft_ fleecy blankets, grey trail of smoke matching his surroundings as it flies up into the air from his dying abandoned cigarette. 

Lu Han will understand when they talk. Lu Han always understands, and Sehun is sure if he knew the truth he would understand, but Sehun can’t. He can’t. 

_Can’t._

\---

"I talked to Sehun."

Minseok glances up, barely there shock on his features as he surveys Lu Han. They're in Minseok's room, sitting close together on the bed as Minseok attempts to salvage Lu Han's Economics assignment.

The way their knees knock together comforts Lu Han, even as his mind rests elsewhere, fingers twitching in anxiety from where they sit on his thighs.

"Did you see him?"

"No, not yet," Lu Han shakes his head, frowns when his bangs separate. "Just on the phone."

"How is he?" Minseok asks, and the way he reaches across Lu Han is subtle, laptop closing closing and books pushed aside. He faces Lu Han on the bed and crosses his own hands in his lap, though his posture is crooked, bent.

"Cryptic."

Lu Han's hands fall from his lap to land at his sides, worn superhero sheets comforting and familiar beneath his fingertips. Minseok is safe, years of friendship showing through in the way he stays calm, knows exactly what to say.

"Are you going to the exhibition?" Minseok asks, and Lu Han is grateful. Minseok didn't ask how he was cryptic, _why._

"He asked me to come," Lu Han nods, fingers gripping Captain America's shield just a tiny bit tighter. He knows his fingers look dainty like this, hates when his fingers look dainty, but Minseok is watching his face carefully. Lu Han stills. "It _was_ for my attention."

"And you're not angry with him?"

"No."

A shaky breath escapes chapped lips, but Lu Han sucks it back, hides his nerves, his fears, even though Minseok always knows.

"Never angry. Not with him."

Minseok gives him a sad kind of smile, leaning forward to rest his palm on Lu Han's knee.

_Platonic comforts._

"Do you want to watch a movie?" Minseok asks, distracting, gentle. Not regarding Lu Han with sympathy, with judgement or held back advice such as the kind he hears from Jongdae and Baekhyun constantly.

_Platonic comforts._

"Please," Lu Han breathes. He flashes Minseok an easy smile, a grateful one.

He relaxes into Minseok's side, comfort of their knees knocking together, of Minseok reaching up to ruffle his hair gently, pushing the anxiety, the obsessive thoughts of Sehun out.

Sehun can wait another day.

\---

_"Do you think we'll be forever?"_

_There's a certain naivety in Sehun's tone, a hope as he cranes his neck backwards and smiles up at Lu Han, the crescent eyed one that makes him look so beautiful, an awkward angel fallen from the sky and into his life._

_"Forever is subjective," Lu Han tells him, but it’s with a smile of his own, a tweak of Sehun's nose and crescents that match his, though nowhere near as beautiful. "Who's to say forever is even a thing? We'll be a long time though."_

_"Something had to exist forever," Sehun insists, and he's crawling into a sitting position, arms winding their way around Lu Han's neck. He's bigger than Lu Han, taller than him now, yet he still manages to make himself a little bit smaller, fit himself into an embrace he considers perfect._

_"Human beings don't," Lu Han points out, and he stares up towards the sky, only for a brief moment to catch the clouds as they pass, imprint them for later. "We can't last forever, but we could last our entire lives, and that's our forever."_

_"That's confusing," Sehun whines, and its his turn to tug at Lu Han's nose playfully, frown pulling the corners of his mouth down comically. "You're supposed to say 'Yes Sehunnie, we're forever'."_

_"I'm an honest person," Lu Han shrugs. "I can't promise something that doesn't exist, even if it's just for the sake of making someone happy."_

_"You make me happy either way," Sehun says, prodding his chest, and Lu Han feels warm lips on his cheek. Still innocent, even with Sehun's legs mimicking his arms as they wrap around Lu Han's waist. “I exist only for the sake of making you happy.”_

_Nothing exists forever._

\---

"Was there someone else?"

It's late -- past midnight -- and the white of the walls is a dusty gray, dark and solemn, lifeless under the light of a dying lamp.

"Why are you asking this now?"

"It’s been bothering me, keeping me up."

A flash of light joins the dull glow of the lamp, igniting a cigarette that slides past chapped lips. 

"There wasn't," Sehun says with a hollow laugh, strained from the drag of his cigarette, from the nicotine that runs through his veins and reminds him that for now, he exists. "If you're thinking that's why I left. There wasn't."

"Then why did you leave?"

Lu Han sounds drunk, voice lower, slurred over the receiver, and Sehun sighs, fingernail tapping against the worn black, eyes trained on where the paint is chipping. 

"It isn't the time to discuss this right now," Sehun mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. It's oily to the touch. "I need to be up early and it's late."

"Was it my fault?" Lu Han interrupts, and he must be drunk. "I just want to know if it was my fault. You changed your mind but--"

"It was," Sehun snaps, irritated. Tired. He hangs up, receiver loud as it falls into its cradle. 

Not Lu Han's fault fully. Indirectly maybe, in a fucked up way. 

The walls swim from the shadows and the weight of the room, cigarette stubbed out into an ashtray that needs to be cleaned. Sehun doesn't care. 

Existence is fleeting when things were created to not be forever.

\---

The Cafe is quiet, as it always is at this time of day.

Lu Han is one of few customers there, seated by the window, sketchbook empty in front of him, Americano growing cold as it sits, full and untouched with his fingers frozen, curled around the ceramic mug. 

The leaves have nearly all fallen, piles of colour along the ground where the trees lack it, dead brown, branches an ugly gray under the sunlight. 

His portfolio is failing this year. He's drawn one, maybe two pictures, spurred on by memories, by Sehun's return. 

The Americano is bitter, cold and tasting slightly like old dishwater when Lu Han brings it to his lips. He winces, pushing it away from him, across the table where it sits, a waste of money, of time. 

_It was_.

What was his fault exactly?

Lu Han can't remember ever doing anything wrong, can't remember anything besides the petty teenage arguments, the times Sehun wasn't affectionate enough, or Lu Han was too honest. 

But those had all been in the past, and nothing had lead up to when Sehun left. And it wasn't as if Sehun had said he was leaving, had argued or been upset. He'd been there one day, and gone the next. 

"He's moved," Was all Sehun's landlady had said, cryptic and condescending over her glasses. Lu Han hated her. 

"You need to focus," Lu Han mutters to himself, snapping his sketchbook closed, tossing it into his bag with a roughness not usually reserved for precious items. "He's here now. That's what matters. You can figure it out."

Minseok repeats those exact words when Lu Han calls him later.

\---

It's unhealthy, this obsession Lu Han has with Sehun.

And it’s almost less with Sehun himself, more with the fact of Sehun. Why is here? Why did he leave? Does he still love Lu Han?

Lu Han still loves him. Maybe, partially, mostly.

He can't decide, legs curled up underneath him, head resting on his knees as he stares out his bedroom window. The window seat is comfortable, stifling, full of memories that weigh down on Lu Han's shoulder, tea cup shaking in his cold hands.

It's going to be winter soon; cold weather and brisk winds, Lu Han's least favourite season.

He'd liked it once, briefly, when Sehun had worn the cutest beanies, had done up Lu Han's jacket for him, brushed the snow from his hair, jokingly proclaimed that he felt like the hyung. They'd had a make-shift Christmas tree before Lu Han had flown back home to see his family; a plastic tree bought from a discount store and tugged down the street, a wreath of fake mistletoe hung around Sehun's neck so Lu Han _would always have the excuse to kiss him._

There's a gust of wind, one that Lu Han hears against the worn window frame, and he sighs as a stray bundle of dead leaves whip up into the air and past his house. His tea is replaced with a sketchbook, familiar gray charcoal held delicately between two fingers; the only drawing material he ever uses while sketching the usual thing, the usual _person_

His hand hesitates today, before flying into action, tea and dropping temperatures forgotten as silver hair appears, crescent moon smiles at their old park, familiar long fingers brushing against the bark of a tree they used to sit against.

Lu Han likes to imagine Sehun misses them too. Likes to imagine he too, has gone to visit their old spots since returning, smile on his lips and nostalgia blowing gently through his hair like cooling November wind.

Lu Han has a midterm tomorrow that he hasn't studied for, but Sehun's exhibition is in a few days. Sehun's exhibition is what matters.

\---

"Hey Sehun?"

There's a hum, distracted; a whirring quietly in the background and the flurry of hands, busy.

"Do you remember that time we went walking on the East Side and you decided to feed the ducks?"

"Yeah, why?"

Legs crossed on the cold gray floor, wind howling through a draft in a cracked window, film developed with a filter. Sehun's hands are cold, but the heater is warm, pouring its orange glow over him and through the crevices of his dead heart.

"I just remember," There's a pause. "I remember we were on the bridge, and it was early summer, and you gave me this look, and all I was talking about was ice cream."

"And?"

Sehun grimaces, receiver cradled with his shoulder as he attempts to listen and develop at the same time. He leans back against the metal frame of his bed, film temporarily ignored and eyes on the dusky light of late Autumn.

"I always wondered what was going through your mind," Lu Han sounds sad, has probably thought about this a lot, has probably let the doubt weave through him and consume him.

_I realized that no matter how much I try, something is forcing me to love you._

Sehun wants -- he wants to tell the truth, to spit things out in a burst of hurried emotion, fingers gripping around the receiver.

"It's the moment I fell in love with you," Sehun says simply. And it's true, it was the moment, but he's holding back the truth, fabricating and creating an existence richer than his own, flickering one.

"Oh," The answer comes and it’s with a whoosh of startled breath, a silence. "But you said it---"

"Before that?" Sehun asks, hollow laughter startling itself out of him. He's losing his control; a bit, slightly, partially. "I said it because you said it to me. I was young, I didn't know what love is."

"But you do now?"

It’s a whisper, the way Lu Han asks it, as if he's afraid that Sehun may answer no. And if Sehun could, he would answer no, nails digging into his thighs as his lungs scream for another cigarette, for a blue pill to calm the nerves.

"I think so." _What is real love?_

“Thank you, Sehun.”

“Yeah.”

\---

__  
“Hey Sehun?”

_Sehun hums from where he’s sitting cross-legged on Lu Han’s floor, head resting against the soft material of the window seat._

_“I love you.”_

_Lu Han looks so sincere, eyes sparkling, bottom lip tucked into his teeth. His fingers twitch a tiny bit, eyes averted from Sehun’s. He’s nervous._

_“I love you too.”_

_Sehun says it without thinking, mechanically but without real feeling. He’s supposed to say this; the appropriate response. The part of his heart he can’t control, the caged in section that suffocates him and pushes away his free will is singing, joyous, enthralled._

_“I’m so lucky.”_

_Sehun is grey, lifting his head from the window seat to look directly at Lu Han, to see the love in his eyes and the shy smile on his lips. He’s naive, nearly innocent at age seventeen, teasing and kittenish as he places his hands on Sehun’s shoulders, kisses him gently on the lips._

_“You are lucky,” Sehun smirks, joking. Right for the moment, because it has the shy smile growing into a proper grin. “I’m pretty hot.”_

_“True.”_

_Lu Han leans forward, tilts his head, kisses Sehun again. Deeper this time, more meaningful, eyes fluttering closed as Sehun forgets, relishes in his existence, seals off the sections of his heart that are free to breathe._

_Lu Han is beautiful._

\---

Grey.

November is a grey month, dreary. The colours of Autumn washed away by a gloom that threatens to consume the city, cloudy skies and twisted bare branches reflected in the windows of gloomy office buildings, brick worn away by years of seasons. 

Lu Han imagines there are streaks of rain, wishes for the clouds to mean something, but he knows it’s too cold for that now. Too far into the realm of time that causes his nerves to seize up and thoughts to run dry. 

“You’re always staring out windows.”

A voice sounds right in his ear, startling Lu Han, noise escaping from his mouth and eyes widening as he jumps in fright, hits his elbow on the glass painfully. 

“Jesus Christ Minseok,” He mutters, icy gaze soft after the moment passes, relaxing. He glances back out the window once, commits the swaying tips of the taller trees to memory, to sketch down later, grin falling onto his features. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Minseok says with a laugh, though his eyes aren’t apologizing, a kind of mirth dancing to show Lu Han that he’s pleased with the reaction. 

Lu Han makes a noise, leans against the cool glass of the window and taps his fingers on it, the noise comforting him as he memorizes more trees, a bench, imagines Sehun standing among them. 

“I got a date,” Minseok tells him, sliding into the seat across from him, eyes bright and grin crooked. 

“With who?” Lu Han asks, eyebrows shooting up, hands sliding across the cool surface of the table, mind preoccupied. 

“Jongdae!”

“But,” Lu Han’s brows drop back down, furrow instead as he tries to understand. “He’s dating Baekhyun.”

“Yep!” Minseok says cheerfully, grin widening. “My date with Baekhyun is next week.”

“You’re kidding me,” Lu Han says, and the news startles a laugh out of him, eyes crinkling slightly. “And here I thought you were pining for one of them, not both.”

“I wasn’t pining,” Minseok whines, reaching across the tables to smack Lu Han’s arm playfully. “I was planning my course of attack.”

“Can you handle them both?” Lu Han asks, leaning back in his chair, easy smile on his lips. He feels more himself right now, mind distracted from Sehun and focus completely on Minseok. “Loud, annoying...”

“I’ll train them well,” Minseok says airily, a vague wave of his hand and his grin growing slightly more crooked. 

“Gross.”

Minseok just laughs, loudly, and stands up with a sudden rush, dragging Lu Han up and out of his chair. 

“Come on,” He demands, tugging Lu Han out of their school and across campus. “We’re going to go somewhere, do something. Get you out of this misery hole you’ve dug.”

Lu Han just sighs, mind back on Sehun and shoes loud on the pavement as he drags his feet. They’re meeting so soon, and it’s terrifying.

\---

The gallery looks different at night.

Or perhaps it's because of the shaking of Lu Han's hands, the whipping of his head back and forth as if he expects Sehun to jump from a nearby bush and into his sight.

The entrance looms before him, but he's brave. He's always been brave.

There aren't a lot of people here, but Lu Han didn't expect there to be. A small scale exhibition leads to a small scale crowd, but he's still bursting with a kind of pride, smiling wide at those who glance at him; they mill around the lobby, lean against walls and tap their feet, hipsters from the upper west side mostly, scarves large and vans snug on their feet.

Lu Han must look strange to those around him; nervous, eager, bouncing on the balls of his feet, craning his neck over taller people and inching towards the front of the line. He looks like an excited fan at a boyband concert, trying to get in first to pounce on his lead singing lover.

He tells a curious hipster that Sehun is an old friend, and that he's just excited to finally see his friend's work up like this, for everyone to see. He's believed, and he gets a few cheers, a few jealous whispers of "wow I wish I had talented friends."

The exhibition itself is so overwhelming, so breathtaking that Lu Han nearly forgets to look for Sehun, trapped by walls and walls of familiar photos, little glass cases with familiar cameras placed inside them; what photo was taken with what?

And then he sees it.

Not Sehun, but the photos, a section of the gallery filled with candid shots of none other than himself, smiling into meals, dancing down the street after Sehun, leaning against the wall of their steps and staring into some kind of distance, sketchbook balanced where it always is.

Sehun had kept the photos, but the title of this particular piece, this particular step in Sehun's life in pictures -- _Colours and Seasons, The story of how I came to be,_ \-- has his heart dropping, confusion causing his lip to be tugged in between teeth, gnawing in nervousness.

 _Trapped_.

The words are perched atop a glass case, hand carved font reminding Lu Han of his final project in Year 11, a tiny sculpture of him and Sehun, Minseok and Yixing as their loyal cats. He'd made the font of their names comic sans as a joke, sculpted it to perfection.

The camera, Lu Han's held it in his hands, taken photos with it even; remembers it nestled between Sehun's thighs, forgotten in the moments when Lu Han had put it aside, climbed into Sehun's lap himself to kiss the cold of winter goodbye.

Sehun hadn't seemed trapped.

\---

"Hey babe."

Sehun laughs into the phone, an inappropriate response to Lu Han's term of endearment, but very Sehun.

It’s a bright day, though cold, snowy wind battering his windows. His walls are covered in photos, little hand developed shots of him and Lu Han, polaroids of their many adventures. There are some shots of Minseok in there as well, with his pudgy face and his sharp eyes, looking out for them both.

"What do you want?" His receiver is new, sleek black having just come out of its box, no need for a cellphone when the only one he ever calls is Lu Han. When the only one he ever _needs_ to call is Lu Han.

"Meet me at the school? I want to take you somewhere."

Lu Han doesn't say where; but he's cryptic like this, fingers laced with Sehun's to drag him who knows where, to tug at the trapped section of Sehun's heart, the one created by something not himself.

"Why?"

Sehun doesn't know why he always asks, why he always hesitates; they're dating, right? Things are perfect, right?

There are no memories. Not before meeting Lu Han, not before simply existing; for Lu Han.

"Just come. I'll buy you cotton candy."

The fair.

Sehun had seen the signs on his way home to bleak gray of his apartment, had snapped a photo of the fraying advertisements. The largest traveling roller coaster in the state.

"You better keep that promise," Sehun says with a laugh. This one isn't fake, isn't lead by the hollowed out hold in his heart.

He'll have fun today.

\---

"You would be here."

Lu Han whips around, fast enough to cause a sharp pain to pierce through the nerves of his neck, eyes wide, staring.

“I was going in order.”

It isn’t the right thing to say, blurted out in a panic as his irises shake, stumbling over himself though he’s standing still.

“You haven’t changed,” Is all Sehun says, and his face is impassive, a frown etched into his features that is unfamiliar to Lu Han, taller, shoulders broader, hair still silver, though windswept.

“Yes I have,” Lu Han insists, and he can’t quite figure out why Sehun’s words bring out an argumentative tone in him, squinting in a confused manner at the boy before him. “I’ve matured greatly.”

Sehun hums, and it’s the same as on the phone, yet clearer.

Lu Han is struck with the realization that he's real, he exists, standing before him, the dream boy he once drew many years ago, his Sehun,

"Your exhibition," Lu Han tries, and he steps forward; not too close, a decent distance away. Conversation distance. It’s too far. “This is wonderful, Sehun.”

“You think so?”

Lu Han sees it; the hint of a smile flash across Sehun’s face, something.

“It’s all thanks to you in a twisted sense of the word thanks,” Sehun continues, and Lu Han feels his stomach lurch, still not understanding.

“I’ll never understand.”

Lu Han looks up at Sehun, startled by how tall he is, by how the lines of his face have changed. Sehun says Lu Han hasn’t changed, but he himself, is vastly different. And yet Lu Han still feels, stuck in the memories of the past, the sudden dis-rupture of what he thought was perfect.

“And I’ll never expect you to understand.”

Sehun shrugs, steps past Lu Han and to the glass case where the camera rests, where the letters glare at Lu Han, taunt them in their confusion.

“Will you at least tell me one day?” Lu Han asks, and he knows he sounds pitiful, hears the crack in his own voice. He hopes Sehun has some humanity left in his once smiling, once youthful face to understand that Lu Han doesn’t know.

“I can’t.”

Sehun’s eyes don’t meet his, and Lu Han watches him trace his sculpture, fingers long and still so pretty as they trail over the top of the T, pause at the A. “I just can’t.”

“Can we --”

Lu Han’s breath catches in his throat and he steps back, feeling suddenly overwhelmed, surrounded by Sehun’s work, fans of the photos that feature Lu Han, that feature their old life. “Can we at least be friends?”

“We can,” Sehun says, and he’s shrugging again, turning back towards Lu Han, closer than before. Not conversation distance. “This exhibition is the last I’ll display the pictures, and the last time they’ll exist within the batteries of the cameras that took them. Past is past.”

“But the past was so beautiful,” Lu Han mutters, eyes downcast, chest constricting. “Did it mean nothing?”

“Your past was beautiful,” Sehun tells him, eyes flickering to the guests, the ones that walk past them and double take, from photos of a teenager to the young man they represent standing rigid and upset. “Mine is full of lies.”

“I should... go, shouldn’t I?”

Lu Han’s voice is quiet, subdued, unlike himself. He rings his hands together, takes a step backwards and glances once, at the exhibition around them, guests slowly filing towards the cinema room, towards the video where Sehun will explain his work, explain what makes the colours bursts and the seasons real.

“I invited you here.”

Something flashes in Sehun’s eyes, a tug of desperation that Lu Han recognizes, having mapped it out many times, having quelled it; nervousness before exams, terror at the thought of a broken camera, worry about bills that are overdue. It serves as a kind of selfish relief, a hope, a tug of Lu Han’s own that Sehun came back because he _still cares_ and that they can be _friends_ and that Lu Han will _fucking understand._

“You can sit with me in the VIP booth for the screening,” Sehun says in a fairly normal voice, not the stilted emotional drawl Lu Han keeps hearing, and Lu Han sees a gust of weird energy, feels the gust of weird energy, following him like he always has; two steps behind and admiring, lost and in love. “I’ll feed you.”

The last part is quietly called over Sehun’s shoulder; hitting Lu Han like a promised wind, and he’s forgetful of the failed mark he’d received on his midterm, forgetful of the years of pining, the past few months of anxiety, if only for a brief moment.

\---

“Does it feel natural when it happens?”

Sehun is lying in bed, arms free but trapped. Strapped to the bed by invisible cords not of his making, existence that is forced. Always forced. His arms, they allow him to take this phone call because it has been drawn, allow him to exist.

The feeling is grey.

“No.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only my chest.”

“I drew you again.”

A pause.

“I guess you knew that.”

“Why did you draw me again?”

Sehun’s voice is hoarse; dehydration the cause of not being able to move, Lu Han’s daydream while drawing of him thinking on his bed, trail of smoke from a forgotten cigarette poisoning the air existing. Only existing for Lu Han.

“I’m sorry,” And Lu Han sounds sincere, choked up even. Sehun tries not to think of the tears that must run down his pretty cherub features, the pain that must constrict his chest. “I got curious. I had -- I had to know if you were telling the truth.”

“I exist for your benefit,” Sehun mutters. He wants to shrug, but his shoulders won’t allow it; he still has another hour of immobility before the section of his heart that consumes him will calm once more, only to become its own hollowed cavern.

“No, you don’t.”

It’s the quietest Sehun has ever heard Lu Han’s voice, a croak, whispered into the phone. A different section of his heart aches; guilt.

“Goodbye, Lu Han.”

\---

“I saw the world in colours, but only because he wanted me too. He created me, brought me to become that person, to become the perfect reenactment of his dream. And I rejected those colours, placed them forever in my camera until all I saw in my world was grey.”

\---

__ You were red,  
and I was blue,  
and you touched me, and suddenly I was a lilac sky,  
and you decided purple, just wasn’t for you. 

\---

Lu Han has never been good at decoding thing, feelings, words.

He only ever knows how to project these things, how to pour his dedication and skewed philosophy onto others, eyes wide and mouth pretty.

He can turn his head to the tops of the trees and all he’ll see is beauty, twisted dead brown illuminated by falling snowflakes, gathering around the bottoms of the streetlamps. He can look at a person and see the same beauty, the deep eyes of a stranger, the dark colour of long flowing hair speckled with little white spots, fallen snow brushed off shoulders by delicate hands.

But if he were friends with the trees, friends with this stranger, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know if they hated him, loved him, wanted him dead, alive, were upset with the very core of his personality.

He doesn’t know these things without being directly told, isn’t good at deciphering emotions, decoding cryptic texts, and understanding the social cues that lead many to compromise and to understanding.

 

Lu Han supposes he’s always been broken this way; always been lost when it comes to properly understanding what makes a person tick.

And he supposes now, thinking, kicking the untouched snow into a dirty pile by the street, jaw locked and eyes teary, that this is where he’s always gone wrong.

\---

“Sehun?”

“Who else would it be?”

The snort is condescending, and Lu Han frowns. He doesn’t like who Sehun has become.

“I’m just surprised you’re calling me.”

“I said we were friends right?” Lu Han tries to picture Sehun, lying on his bed and fiddling with the worn cord of his phone, feet bare, hair fanning over his soft white pillows. “Friends call each other. You should come over.”

“Just like that?”

Lu Han glances around his own bedroom, easels, scattered books, a laptop in need of replacing. It’s always been colourful, Autumn and Summer prominent where Sehun’s bedroom is the faded hues of deep Winter.

“We’ll always be friends Lu Han.”

The clouds outside cast a grey light into Lu Han's room, but the candles on his desk glow a soft orange, and he's reminded of the positivity, of his portfolio; uncompleted. 

"I'll be there in twenty."

\---

It's Spring; bright sunlight pouring in over the ugly faded heater that Lu Han sometimes likes to press his face close to during the colder nights, knees brought up to his chest and eyes sparkling.

Sehun is pliant beneath him, eyes smiling as his lips part beautifully, asking for Lu Han to enter, for Lu Han to ravage him, hands sliding up thighs and quiet gasps mixing with crisp Spring air; Winter is quickly leaving and Lu Han can feel it bursting through his veins, a new energy, new smiles, _Sehun._

"Lu Han," Sehun breathes, always so responsive, toes curling, fingers digging into his spine as Lu Han palms him slowly. He never rushes with Sehun, never quite gives him what he wants, just leans forward, kissing the moans that spill from his lips, unbottons jeans to slide his hand fully in and grip Sehun properly.

"What do you want, Sehun?" Lu Han asks, and it's playful, filled with love and promise, want, the energy of a summer yet to come.

"You," Sehun says, and his back arches into Lu Han as if to prove his point; a white pillow falls to the floor. "Always you. Everything for you."

"Don't be cheesy while I'm trying to get you off."

Lu Han’s words sound serious, but they lack bite, grin on his face as Sehun _giggles_ into his shoulder, bites down as he comes over Lu Han's fingers, down his wrists. His eyes are still dark watching Lu Han lick his own fingers clean, humming at the taste, but they flash with something else, something Lu Han will never quite catch.

"You love me," Sehun says teasingly, grip on Lu Han's collar tight as he tugs him forward, whining when Lu Han's lips find his again, tongues sliding together. "You're also still too dressed. We're both too dressed."

"You think so?" Lu Han asks with a smirk, pushing Sehun back down until his back touches the cool sheets, buttons of a grey shirt coming open.

"I think so."

Sehun's mouth, the touch of his lips, tongue, fingers; they burst, lilac flames, colourful in Lu Han's veins.

Lu Han never once wonders what his colours are like for Sehun.

\---

"It's cold in here."

Sehun is perched on the edge of his bed, eyebrow raised in Lu Han's direction, limbs too long, bent awkwardly.

"It's always been cold in here."

"It seems colder," Lu Han mutters, walking over to the heater, frowning when the knob sticks.

"It's broken," Sehun says from the bed, and he's sprawling now, looking comfortable in the icy cold room, tank-top sleeves falling dangerously from his shoulders. Temptation. “Since last week.”

"And you're not cold?"

Lu Han frowns, sits awkwardly on the cool wooden boards, jacket still on, beanie still crooked atop his head.

"I don't really get cold," Sehun shrugs. He's lighting up a cigarette, a habit Lu Han despises and yet is fully attracted to, eyes following the trail of smoke, settling on the plush of Sehun's lips around the stick, the way they part as his eyes lock with Lu Han's.

Tension.

"You used to."

"People change."

"I didn't know bodies followed hearts."

Lu Han isn't sure why he says it; why he says it in that tone, or with that choice of words, but Sehun is sitting back up, regarding him with something he can't read, a familiar flash that frustrates Lu Han.

He can never quite tell these things. Never has.

There's a thump; Sehun sliding from the bed and to the floor, cigarette half gone as he blows the smoke above Lu Han's head, out the drafty windows.

"You're still trapping me," He says, and his face is too close to Lu Han's; so close that Lu Han can count his eyelashes, can make out the exact curve of his cheekbones. "I shouldn't have invited you. I knew this would happen."

"Do you still --"

"I always have."

"I'm not trapping you," Lu Han looks down, away, feels his breath catching, twisting in his lungs, pushing his heart into its cold, hollow place. "You can leave again, whenever you want."

"You don't understand."

Sehun's laughter is playful in a way that has Lu Han's blood running cold. But he's beautiful, nose long and straight, wrists delicate as he reaches behind himself to put out his cigarette.

Lu Han feels warm, burning up even in the chill of Sehun's drab room, eyes tracing patterns in the wood, fingers curling around nothing.

"I don't."

Lu Han looks up at Sehun, in the same way he'd done at the exhibition, in the same way he'd done a million times in his life, and his gaze is pure emotion.

"I would never do it on purpose," He says, and he's frowning too much, the frown that Sehun used to say he hated, that Minseok likes to reach over and tug up with his own fingers. "You should know this."

"I do know this," Sehun nods, and he looks sad, eyes darker; the little sun there is has been completely eclipsed by the clouds outside, setting behind a wall of November sadness. "That's why you're here."

"You're too jaded for someone as young as you are," Lu Han murmurs. His head rests on his knees and he stares. Searches for any signs of _something_. "I still love you, you know. I'm sorry I ever made you leave."

"I'm sorry you ever made me exist."

"You existed before me," Lu Han says in confusion. "Someone shouldn't exist solely for someone else's benefit."

"I only exist because of you," Sehun says cryptically -- dramatically -- and Lu Han is struck by the sudden innocence across his features, the sudden burst of the Sehun he used to know. "I didn't exist before you and i didn't exist after you."

"Do you exist now?" Lu Han asks; he's playing along, dancing around Sehun's confusing words, Sehun's confusing everything. He left, and he's back and Lu Han feels as if he never left, as if they simply hadn't seen each other for a week; reconciliation after a fight, an argument.

Not two years.

"I'm sitting in front of you aren't I?" Sehun says, and there's a desperation back in his tone, as if he can't control himself. Lu Han sucks in a breath.

There's no warning before Sehun surges forward, arms around Lu Han's neck to kiss him hard, licking into an unresponsive mouth as Lu Han freezes in shock; overwhelmed. He only responds at the last minute, sighing in confusion, relief.

_Sehun is kissing him and maybe they can fix this and maybe can stay but Sehun is pulling away and looking panicked and Lu Han just wants, wants wants --_

"Sehun?" Lu Han gasps out, lips swollen and beanie fallen to the floor, nerves on fire. "What was --"

"Sorry," Sehun says, and he looks sheepish, lost, _trapped._ "I'm sorry I couldn't help myself."

And Lu Han still doesn't understand, but he _wants_ to.

"You can't do that," Lu Han snarls suddenly, and the anger that flows through him is justified, he thinks. Real, right. _never angry. not with him._ "You can't just disappear and break my heart and come back and be all fucking cryptic and then try to make out with me."

"I--" Sehun stutters, and for the first time since he's been back, Lu Han sees hesitance, sees the scared boy that had failed an exam, that had broken an expensive camera. "I didn't -- I couldn't -- Lu Han --"

"I'll go home now."

Lu Han is quiet as he stands, quiet as he resists that every nerve, every thought in his mind, body is screaming at him to jump on Sehun, to reclaim what's his, to let him in. Mind, body, soul. Where he belongs.

He ignores Sehun calling his name.

\---

“There was this time, when he took my camera and he tried to take a photo. And it turned out beautiful. At the time I wanted to cry; I was so happy that I was in love with someone so talented, that could pick up anything art and make it his own.

But later, I looked at the photo, at the colours of the leaves, and I looked into my face, the deadness of my eyes and the crooked smile on my face. It felt fake. 

It was fake. I was trapped. My love was not my own but a fabrication, created only for him, Charcoal on paper to be his. And I couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard I tried. I still can’t stop it. I’m still trapped.”

\---

__ Take me, take me back to your bed,  
I love you so much that it hurts my head,  
I don’t mind you under my skin,  
I’ll let the bad parts in, the bad parts in. 

\---

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

 

"You know what."

 

Sehun is coughing, sound too loud over the receiver. It causes every string of Lu Han's being to constrict, to close in on itself, twisting.

"You know I could never be angry. Not with you."

"I can never be angry with you either."

"I know."

"I can be sad though," Sehun sounds trapped, and Lu Han can see it, feel it, hear it. The fairy lights strewn throughout his room do nothing for the colourless pain that seeps into his ear, layered through a voice that sounds tired. "I want to let you go, but I can't."

"I'll go willingly."

"I can't let you willingly."

Sehun sounds insistent, and that fear that Lu Han doesn't understand is back in his voice, that crack that Lu Han falls through but can't get out of.

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are. I'm sorry too."

\---

"Sehun kissed me."

Minseok blinks, looking shocked for a brief moment before his eyes narrow.

Why did he do that?" Minseok asks, perplexed and slightly ruffled, protective even in the face of his precious dongsaeng Sehun.

"I don't know," Lu Han says, and he drags a hand through his hair, leans against the back of the lounge couch, curls further into the arm. "I left."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," Lu Han repeats pathetically, and he presses the heel of of his palm to his eyes, squeezes as if they'll touch his brain and magically grant him an answer. 'What would you do?"

"I would talk to him," Minseok says simply, and it's always been simple with him; easy. "You guys need to talk like human beings, not all cryptically with your art and poetry."

"It's easier for him to be cryptic I think," Lu Han frowns, pouts at Minseok. "Why can't I fix my sad life when you managed to get two boyfriends."

Minseok smiles lightly at that, pats Lu Han's arm.

"Every relationship is different, but fixing them is always the same," His words are true, and Lu Han can't help the sigh that bursts from his lips. "You just need to communicate."

"I'll try."

"Good."

\---

__

_Sehun blinks, mind hazy and limbs heavy._

_He's confused, kind of lost. He has memories, but they feel planted in his head. He has thoughts, feelings, actions, but something feels off._

_He remembers, but he doesn't remember, as if he's just come into existence in the middle of this sidewalk, surrounded by melting snow. He sees teenagers, his age, dressed like he is._

_A school; it must be his, he supposes. His mind tells him so, directs him to walk towards it, go to a math class that he doesn't remember registering for. He exists, and there's a part of his heart that feels separate from the others telling him that he needs to find his purpose._

_He stares at his chest in confusion and wonder, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. He's still short at this time, torso still not yet grown into his lanky limbs, face still soft, baby like; a 16-year-old._

_Sehun considers asking someone where he is, but he _knows_ where he is. It's an odd feeling, as if he's been born, fresh from a womb but with 16 years of life implanted._

_His heart tugs, and he lurches, gasps, looks up to see two boys; older maybe. Both beautiful, good-looking, the heartbreaker type._

_The one on the left is the one this weird part of his heart yearns for, and Sehun can't figure out why he suddenly feels trapped, drawn forward._

_They're talking to him, smiles and friendly gestures, names that he doesn't catch in his haze of confusion, declarations that Sehun is cute, that they want to be his friend, take care of him; he must be a transfer._

_"You're beautiful," Sehun blurts out instead of his name, eyes wide and fixated on the taller of the two, a boy with a perfect jawline, glittering eyes and soft, almost fluffy hair._

_"My name is Lu Han," The boy laughs, and it isn’t condescending; more curious as he looks curiously at Sehun. "But beautiful works too."_

\---

The buzzer is loud, obnoxious in the early morning.

Lu Han groans loudly, drowns it out with his complaining as he slams a button down, growls into the receiver of his rarely used house phone.

"What?"

"Can I come up?"

It's Sehun, which takes Lu Han by surprise, has him wide awake and struggling to put pants on, mumbling a subdued yes into his phone, different from the irritated snap of his voice merely seconds earlier.

Lu Han opens the door five minutes later with messy bed-hair, ratty sweats hanging low on his hips, shirtless and still half-asleep. He's unhappy, confused by Sehun showing up, but he knows he looks good like this; smirks at the way Sehun looks him up and down, licks his lips nervously.

Sehun looks good too, grey jacket and black buttons that match black jeans, dusty grey boots. He's dressed like a puff of smoke, trailing through Lu Han's life and settling under his skin. Second hand Sehun.

"Can we talk?" Sehun asks, and it’s timid, wide eyed.

He's suddenly shorter, and Lu Han feels as though he can see Sehun in his Riverview uniform, tie blowing in the wind and dark brown hair not yet silver, shy smiles and blurted out compliments.

His heart constricts and he nods.

They sit on Lu Han's bed among the Christmas lights, Sehun absently eyeing Lu Han's charcoal collection. He looks upset somehow, eyes follow the pattern of drawings on the wall, a timeline of different portfolios; of the colours and seasons as Lu Han sees them.

"When I say --"

Sehun pauses, shakes his head. "No not yet."

Lu Han blinks, confused, but says nothing, waits for Sehun to continue.

"We could try again," Sehun says tentatively. "I can deal with my own issues and just let myself exist for you how I was supposed to, how I was made to, and we could be okay."

"That's not healthy, Sehun," Lu Han murmurs.

"It's all I know," Sehun chokes, and he's crying, tears spilling down his cheeks and wetting the collar of his shirt; green today, a rare burst of colour in the grey that always has been Sehun's life.

Lu Han isn't sure what to do; he feels guilt, pain, sadness, but he still leans forward, wraps his arms around Sehun, sits with him in silence, holds him.

"Just like that," Sehun says into his shoulder. "You're still here and you're always here and I'm supposed to fall into you like I always have."

"No you're not," Lu Han says into his hair, and he believes this. No matter how selfish he is, no matter how much he wants Sehun, he needs to know that he exists for many reasons that are not Lu Han, needs to let go of this unhealthy feeling. If this is why he left Lu Han needs to show him that there’s no need to stay.

"I am," Sehun says firmly, and his eyes grow dark, hands on Lu Han's chest and tears drying, wiped off on Lu Han's skin. "We can take things slow, remember who we were. I'm home and I exist and please let me."

"Taking things slow doesn't involve you feeling up my naked chest," Lu Han says, and he's trying to joke, trying to lighten the mood, stop the hammering of his chest; the decision trying to make itself just based on how soft Sehun's fingers feel as they accidentally -- or perhaps purposely -- brush against a nipple.

"I could take things slow while feeling up your naked chest," Sehun whispers, and the joke is there, the teasing of old. He's trying too hard, and Lu Han pushes him back, pushes him away, places the gentlest of kisses on Sehun's forehead, fingers laced through his.

"No," Lu Han shakes his head. "You know I'll take you back, take us back. You know I'm never angry, not with you. But we take things slow."

"It takes a long time to make up for two years, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes it does."

"Can we watch a movie?" Sehun asks, and he looks pitiful, trapped. Lu Han wants him to look free, wants the mirth in his eyes to be his own. "Cuddle at least? I think I need you right now."

"Breakfast first?" Lu Han suggests, running fingers through Sehun's soft hair, heart aching at the subconscious way in which Sehun leans into his touch, nods his head. "We can get breakfast and I'll drink coffee and we can watch your favourite movies all day."

"Thank you," Sehun mutters.

It's sincere.

It’s easy to pretend even with the weight crushing both of them.

\---

_Lu Han is perfect._

_Sehun would like to say he fell in love quickly, that they hit it off and Lu Han was charmed and loved him and asked him right that day they met._

_Things don't always work that way, though, and Lu Han barely pays him any mind, just coos, pats his cheeks, drags him to the mall for shopping._

_They're just friends, and Sehun hates it, hates that he feels like he's not fulfilling his existence._

_He follows Lu Han anyways, lets an unforeseen force guide him through his first semester like a lost puppy in love. Even when he hangs out with only Minseok his ears are open, intensely listening to any mention of Lu Han._

_“When are you gonna tell him?” Minseok asks one day, sharing a meal with Sehun on the back steps; Summer is approaching with bright sun and warm winds._

_Sehun doesn’t pretend to not know who he’s referring to._

_“I can’t,” Sehun says, and he sounds impassive, hopes he sounds impassive. Minseok always notices the changes in his mood, seems more in-tuned to him than Lu Han ever will be; but that’s just Minseok, quiet and attentive and all-knowing, the perfect best friend._

_“You sure?”_

_Minseok raises an eyebrow, judging, though he’s cutely drinking his banana milk like a child drinks from a bottle._

_“I’m sure,” Sehun says, and he wants to flop on top of Minseok but the weird part of him, the one he tries not to acknowledge stops him. _No._ It says, _You belong to Lu Han.__

_But Sehun doesn’t belong to Lu Han; he’s just a hormonal teenage boy with confusing memories and possibly a heart condition. He’ll never belong to Lu Han._

_“He likes you though,” Minseok says matter-of-factly, shoulders shrugging and milk drained, lips smacking together childishly. “You guys are just skirting around each other like shy preteens.”_

_“I don’t even remember being a preteen.”_

_It’s muttered, and Minseok laughs, but Sehun isn’t joking, eyes narrowing as he stares at a tree across the street._

_He really doesn’t remember._

\---

The thing about being with Sehun is that it feels natural. _Too_ natural, Lu Han struggling between too close and too far, not knowing whether to smile or frown.

Breakfast feels too normal, the familiar chairs of Sehun’s favourite fast food place making him uncomfortable, nervous. 

And yet he feels at home; flooded by the memories that are covering his eyes:

Sehun and him here at five in the morning, giggling and fighting a soft drink. 

Watching Sehun across the table as they collect their change together for another greasy burger; Legs thrown across Sehun’s as they engage in something probably too inappropriate for a restaurant, even a cheap one like this. 

Now they sit like friends, polite and smiling across the table as Sehun seems to relax, seems to open up, colour seeming to flash across his personality. Lu Han wants to draw him like this, colourful and laughing, nothing like the sullen closed off Sehun that had returned to the city. 

“I’m glad you don’t hate me,” Lu Han says suddenly, seriousness mixing in with the dying laughter of a joke just told. “I still don’t know what I did, or why you felt the way you did, but I’m glad you’re here with me, now.”

“I could never hate you hyung.”

Sehun sounds shy -- is using honorifics -- and Lu Han feels his heart swell, fill up, warm despite the season that begins to surround them on every side. 

“I could never hate you,” Sehun repeats later, burrowed into Lu Han’s side, movie playing forgotten on Sehun’s outdated television. “Never.”

\---

Lu Han isn’t sure why they’re kissing.

Sehun is responsive, eager, _desperate_ , fingers curling into Lu Han’s shirt tightly, as if trying to hold onto something more than just the thin material. It’s exhilarating and terrifying, past and present meeting with each touch of lips, each drag of tongue, hot and heavy against the other. 

He isn’t sure how they got here; one moment they’re watching a cheesy movie, the next Sehun has him pressed against the headboard, straddling his thighs, unrecognizable look plastered across his sculpted features. 

The feeling is new, and Lu Han can’t describe. It’s just like before, and yet new. 

_So much for taking things slow._

Lu Han moans, loud and embarrassing when Sehun scrapes teeth across his earlobe, shifts in his lap. And it isn’t fair because Lu Han taught him all these things; every teasing trick, every weak spot. 

Sehun still remembers them. 

And Lu Han, he still hasn’t forgotten Sehun’s either; hands sliding up under his shirt, thumbs grazing sensitive nipples. He’s too lost in the moment to care how complicated this is, but the feel of Sehun’s cock, hardening through his jeans has him pulling away with a gasp; back to reality. 

“Sehun,” He starts, voice hoarse and lips swollen. “We can’t.”

“I know,” Is the quiet answer Sehun gives him, and he melts away from Lu Han, colour draining from him, staying behind on Lu Han’s skin like teardrops. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Lu Han licks his lips, chews and looks away from Sehun.

“You left,” He says, and it hurts. “You left and I can’t just let you show up like this, I can’t just let you back in when I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“I came back because,” Sehun pauses and he too licks his lips, breathing still laboured, eyes still glazed over with lust and something else. “I came back because you needed me to. You wanted me to.”

“And how would you know that?” Lu Han asks, tone sharp but not angry. Just curious, confused. “You haven’t spoken to me since you disappeared, how would you know anything about my life.”

“We’re still the same,” Sehun says, and he gestures to the room around them, fingers shaking. He needs a cigarette; Lu Han can always tell. “It’s easy to know your life when nothing’s changed except for the school you go to.”

And he’s right, really. 

Lu Han still draws, he still broods, he still curls himself around his best friend when he’s sad and pouts when squirrels won’t let him pet them. He’s still in love with Sehun and he still finds himself sitting on their steps, even when the weather shouldn’t allow it. 

But Sehun, he’s still the same also. The same flashes of emotion in his eyes, the same indifferent and yet shy stance, the softness that sometimes creeps through. 

And yet it’s different. Lu Han thinks time can do that to people, because even if the feeling is still there, it’s been faded. Life experience, time spent alone, with others. 

Lu Han still doesn’t know why, but he knows the sunken feeling in his chest when the door closes on Sehun all too well.

\---

“Sehun do you ever think of what life would be like if I didn’t exist?”

Lu Han sounds tired, emotional. His voice lacks colour and Sehun yearns for it, yearns to know what the blissful colours of Autumn feel like. 

“Why are you asking?” Sehun is worried, though which part of himself he doesn’t know.

“I’m just wondering,” Lu Han says, and Sehun hears the sounds of him flopping back into his pillows, lean body and legs splayed in front of him. “What if I didn’t exist?”

“Then neither would I.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Sehun lets his own head fall back, lets his hair fan out over the grey of his pillows, hazy blue of his sleeping pills swimming into his vision. “I’m here because you’re here. Without you I would be nothing.”

There’s a sigh, and Sehun thinks there might be a sniffle. 

“I love you,” Lu Han tells him, and it’s earnest, meaningful, _Lu Han._ “I hope we never leave each other.”

_I can’t leave you even if I tried._

“I hope so too.”

\---

_Sehun's been a little off lately._

_Or so it seems to Lu Han. He's been quieter, laughter less often, eyelids drooping from a lack of sleep; insomnia._

_He's worried, teeth buried in the eraser of his pencil and legs shaking restlessly from where they're draped across the window seat. Sehun won't listen when Lu Han tells him he should vacation a bit, leave the city to go see his family in the country._

_Sehun just keeps shaking his head, telling Lu Han that he refuses to go anywhere if he isn't coming. And it's childish really, but Lu Han just thinks it's cute, just worries and pouts by himself, locked up in his room._

_Sehun had been over earlier; Lu Han has the hickeys to prove it, hair still mussed from where fingers had curled into the strands, tugged._

_Lu Han feels guilty for not knowing what's bothering Sehun, for being insecure despite Sehun's insistent words of "it's not you, I'm just upset over my exams."_

_And they are good -- perfect in fact -- but Lu Han still worries. The only thing he can do is daydream, pull out the special sketchbook where he keeps his drawings of Sehun, the black and white charcoal art of the love of his life._

_He draws Sehun at a train station, mind heavy and bags heavier. It's one of his best pictures, background blending perfectly, tiny speech bubble above Sehun's head; out of place in the realistic feeling of the work, yet perfect._

_Lu Han thinks of what Sehun always says to him, thinks of his declarations of love and his hidden emotions. He imagines the sorrowful situation, imagines Sehun whispering apologies into his pillow as he smokes his last cigarette in the city._

_"I need to leave," The speech bubble says, sad Sehun's eyes twinkling even with the dullness of the pencil. "I need to cease to exist in this city, and find my happiness again."_

_He'll have to show this to Sehun tomorrow on their date, bug him about starring in a dramatic movie, leaving the sad, crying girl behind and running off to make a living in New York._

_Lu Han just isn't sure why the charcoal feels heavier, or why he suddenly feels dread in the pit of his stomach._

\---

"I knew I'd find you here."

Lu Han looks up, startled out of his daze, gloved fingers pausing where they'd been flying across paper moments ago. The steps are cold where he's sitting, and it's with a puff of air that he answers Sehun.

"I'm behind on my portfolio," Is all Lu Han says, looking up at Sehun with eyes that are only widened slightly. "I work best here."

"You always have," Sehun says, and he sits next to Lu Han, thighs touching. The warmth is immediate, and it takes nearly all of Lu Han's will to not lean into Sehun's fleeting touch. "Even when we were teenagers."

"I suppose," Lu Han isn't looking at Sehun, eyes trained on the scene he's drawing, a faceless couple dancing under fairylights. _Add some liveliness to your work_ Minseok had said. "Why are you here?"

"I can't stay away from you," Sehun says, and it's honest, bare. "Even if you tell me to, even if I try."

"I'm sorry."

The sketchbook is heavy, and Lu Han's fingers are starting to numb through his thin gloves; the air feels chillier all of a sudden, crisp wind biting through his windbreaker.

"It's not your fault," It's said quietly, and Lu Han feels Sehun's warmth closer; feels the weight of Sehun leaning on his shoulder. It's heavier than the sketchbook, heavier than having an entire building lay itself to rest atop his shoulders.

"You've changed your mind now?" Lu Han asks, and his words too, come out quietly. Nervous.

"Everything I've said," Sehun licks his lips, fidgets. "It hasn't been a lie. But I know you never meant anything."

"Does that mean we can start over properly?" Lu Han asks gently, sketchbook closed and hands clasped together; for warmth.

"I don't think we should start at all," Sehun says darkly, and his eyes are sad, lost. "I think we should just keep going."

"If we keep going you'll just feel the same way you always have."

"And that's okay," Sehun tells him, lets out another puff of cold air. "That's just how it is."

"What can I do to change?" Lu Han asks, and he's moving away from Sehun, sitting up straighter, ignoring the way the cold seeps into his skin from the step walls. "What can I do so that you don't feel bad anymore."

"You can't change anything," Sehun stands up, stretches, reaches out a hand. Lu Han takes it warily, glances at him with uncertainty, worry, fear. "But that's okay."

"Are you sure?"

It's a moment they can't turn back from; a banishment of high school, of two years alone, and of maturity.

"I'm sure."

\---

Baekhyun and Jongdae are singing a duet; loud over the karaoke microphones, noise grating to Lu Han's sober ears.

"I'm dating Sehun again," Lu Han says over -- or perhaps under -- the sound of Baekhyun's wailed high note. Minseok is lounging on the couch next to him, drink in hand and eyes fondly attached to Jongdae as he sings some kind of bridge.

"Are you sure about this?" Minseok asks, and he doesn't give advice, just hands his bottle to Lu Han, tips the contents into a willing mouth. "Have you guys fixed things?"

"Almost," Lu Han coughs, vodka concoction burning as it touches the back of his throat. "We've talked. We'll get there."

"I'm happy for you," Minseok tells him, getting up to take a microphone from Jongdae, glancing back to give Lu Han a gummy smile.

Minseok is sincere; his words are never lies.

But maybe they're not perfect, never will be; Sehun's words snapped over the receiver before he hangs up, before a completely wasted Lu Han slumps into the back seat of a car, wondering, hoping, lost.

It'll always be his fault.

\---

_"You'll have to pretend to just be my friend," Lu Han tells Sehun, frowns over his breakfast of champions; an egg muffin and a fountain drink. "My parents, they're very conservative. I don't think I'm ready to break that -- that kind of news to them yet."_

_"It's alright," Sehun assures him, reassures him, reaches across the table to hold Lu Han's hand, fingers curled around fingers. "I just want to meet them, it doesn't matter as what."_

_"They'll love you," Lu Han says with a grin, leaning back in his seat and sighing happily, lips quirking over his straw. "Loving you probably runs in my family."_

_Sehun blushes, hides his face, resurfaces to tug Lu Han's hand closer._

_"I hope so."_

_(They do love him, nurture Sehun like he's a son._

_"We love our son's best friend," They say, and it only hurts Sehun a little bit. He exists for Lu Han, and it doesn't matter in what way.)_

\---

"Sehun--"

Lu Han is gasping, back pressed against the wall, voice echoing in the dingy bathroom of the gallery. His pants are pooled around his ankles, underwear joining them as Sehun' drops to his knees, looks up at him adoringly; painfully.

"I couldn't resist," Sehun pants, and he's nipping at Lu Han's thighs, going too slow for a place like this where anyone could walk in. Lu Han keeps eyeing the door through the mirror, eyes wide and hips bucking into Sehun's sudden tight grip.

"You looked so good and so happy and so proud," Sehun continues, voice muffled as he places kisses to Lu Han's inner thighs, to his balls. "You liked my newest exhibit so much, and that part of my heart. It _wants_."

"That part of your --" Lu Han moans as his sentence is cut off, as Sehun takes him in fully, holds Lu Han's hips against the wall with a sure hand.

"Later," Sehun mumbles around Lu Han's cock, vibrations causing Lu Han to throw his head back, moan louder. "We'll discuss it later."

Lu Han forgets Sehun's words when he comes with a shout ten minutes, zipper done up just in time for a random boy to come through the door, giving their swollen lips and messy hair a calculating, judging look.

They both laugh, hand in hand as they leave the bathroom, leave the gallery, cold air of winter fresh as Lu Han's heart dances.

They're okay.

\---

Lu Han is in high spirits these days; his portfolio is coming along nicely, winter slowing down as they dance into the next year. Christmas, the holidays, it's all a blur to him with Sehun back at his side and his best friends there.

It's been a good few months; no fighting, no cryptic words, no discussions of being trapped. Just a strange bliss of their relationship feeling as if it's once again new, once again replenished; beautiful.

It's almost been too nice, Sehun acting exactly the same as he once had, just like the naive teenager remembers him as. It's almost as if he's pretending, molding himself to what he thinks Lu Han will love.

It's there; in the back of Lu Han's mind, crawling to the surface to seep through as insecurities, shorter hugs, chaster kisses.

 

He thinks that maybe they're just pretending to be okay.

\---

_ Do you remember when me met?  
That’s the day I knew you were mine. _

\---

_Lu Han is late._

_He's usually late but today Sehun is irritated, stretched out on Lu Han's bed -- Lu Han never has to know that he's crinkled his blankets -- eyes on the bright sun that streams through Lu Han's slightly open curtains._

_“Just let yourself in, I won't be long; work just wants to keep me,” Lu Han had said, had laughed over the phone._

_Lu Han knows nothing. Lu Han is cheerful, optimistic, loving; he looks into the future with bright colours, ones that spill from him and cascade over Sehun. He can sometimes feel their warmth, can sometimes understand what orange feels like as it ghosts over his lips, what fiery red tastes like on the tip of a tongue._

_He glances to the side. Lu Han's sketchbooks are stacked neatly, well-kept and cared for; the most precious things in his life aside from the dreadful charcoal pencil._

_Sehun is never sure why he hates the pencil. Perhaps because it's Lu Han's favourite, and Sehun can't understand why someone so colourful would want to draw with something so lifeless, so dead, so pointless. He absently counts the sketchbooks, five of them placed so nicely Sehun could swear robot hands had placed them there._

_There’s an extra sketchbook._

_Sehun has only ever looked through four of Lu Han’s sketchbooks. “This is all the work I’ve ever done. Porfolio’s one, two, three and the current one.”_

_It’s probably just a new one, one never written in and meant for portfolio number five, but Sehun is bored, curious, slides from the safety of Lu Han’s bed to the foor. He scoots across the floor childishly, reaching above his head for the sketchbooks._

_ Portfolio one; New beginnings.  _

_ Portfolio two; Seasons  _

_ Portfolio three; Colours _

_ Portfolio four; Colours and Seasons  _

_The fifth one is labelled “Mine”, and at first Sehun smiles, at first he giggles, opening the pages to find drawings of him, all dated, signed, black and white with Lu Han’s favourite charcoal pencil._

_And then he sees it._

_The first drawing, dated the same morning he’d found himself confused, lost in the middle of a sidewalk, memories but not flooding his mind. And he gets curious, reaches for the charcoal pencil, rips out a blank page._

_That part of him leads him, understands, but Sehun doesn’t, just knows that maybe there’s a reason he exists for Lu Han, maybe there’s a reason the depression is collapsing down on his shoulders and dragging him under to drown._

_Each picture in the sketchbook, they’re all things Sehun remembers doing, but they’re all dated before he remembers doing them._

_He’s not the best at drawing -- photography has always been his only talent -- but he tries anyways. Draws a portrait of himself, tells a story while he’s doing it. He’s fist pumping in the drawing, hands to the sky. It’s a cute doodle and Sehun grins, satisfied for a moment._

_Maybe he’ll take a photo when his shoulder stops hurting._

_He’s not sure why it’s hurting, but that part of him, the one that controls his movement and makes him feel crazy stirs, and Sehun finds himself with his hands in the air, mimicking the photo._

_He breathes in carefully._

_Breathes out shakily._

_And understands._

\---

_“You drew me,” Sehun says accusingly, pointing at Lu Han from where he’s still seated on the floor, sketchbook open in his lap to page one. “You drew me before you even knew me.”_

_“Why do you think I fell in love with you,” Lu Han says cheekily, dropping to the floor next to Sehun and kissing him gently; on the lips, the side of his jaw, the soft spot beneath his ear. “I drew my dream boy and imagined I’d meet him, and then someone exactly like him shows up at my school and calls me beautiful. It was fate.”_

_“It’s almost like you created me,” Sehun laughs, and he’s turning, kissing Lu Han back. Lu Han doesn’t notice the shakiness, the hollow quality of his grey laughter._

_“I guess so,” Lu Han giggles, and he looks shy, snaps the sketchbook shut and holds it close to his chest. “I never thought you would find these. I’m embarrassed.”_

_“I find everything,” Sehun says with a smirk, and he’s crawling back up to Lu Han’s bed, challenging him. Sehun pats the blankets next to him playfully while Lu Han meticulously stalks the books back up, places the charcoal pencil in its holder. “Coming up?”_

_Lu Han crawls up to the bed and on top of him, grinning and beautiful._

_Sehun knows how he exists now. Knows why._

\---

“Sehun.”

He’s fiddling with a camera, sitting a bit away from the others so he can focus, get the exact right angle for his shot. 

“What’s up,” He calls, not looking up. He knows the owner of the voice. 

“I think we need to talk.”

Sehun blinks in confusion, finally glancing up to find Minseok hovering over him, eyes soft but serious. 

“Have I done something wrong?” He asks, tone careful. He’s always been close with Minseok; has always respected him, gone to him advice. But that was when he first existed and this is now, after he’d supposedly broken Lu Han’s heart, over and over. 

“Possibly,” Minseok says but he’s leading Sehun by the wrist over to a table by the windows, the ones Lu Han loves because he gets a view of the lobby fountains. 

Sehun sits nervously, waits for Minseok to speak. He’s lost his best shot of the day, and he can feels eyes on them, can feel the others watching, though they don’t interfere. 

“Why are you pretending?” Minseok asks, and he’s straightforward, never being one to skirt around, to play games. 

“I’m not--” Sehun tries to say but his words die out, trail off at the look on Minseok’s face. 

“Back before you left, I could tell you weren’t pretending, but now you are,” Minseok says shortly, and he looks angry, but it’s a slow burning anger, the kind that parents give their children when they’re disappointed. “So whatever you’re doing you need to stop and you need to tell Lu Han what he’s done wrong before he collapses.”

“We’re fixing it,” And Sehun sounds whiny, childish, even to his own ears. 

“He’s fixing it,” Minseok says and it’s the truth. Sehun hates him in that moment for telling the truth. “He’s fixing it and you’re hiding something from him. You didn’t have to deal with him after you left Sehun. I did and it wasn’t fun.”

Sehun is left alone at the table with his head spinning and his heart tugging aimlessly at his sleeve.

\---

_They’re sitting on the steps -- alone -- watching the sun go down._

_Sehun could stay here forever, could lean into Lu Han’s side and pretend he belongs there, inhaling the soft scent of honey that he always exudes._

_The air is cool, and Sehun basks in it, basks in the serenity of not-knowing, of the piece of heart feeling whole, proper. They aren’t talking much, Lu Han rarely does when they walk together, bits and piece of conversation here and there._

_Sehun likes to watch Lu Han sketch, likes to watch his hands, fingers pretty around his pencils. There’s something beautiful about watching art come to life and Sehun supposes that’s why Lu Han watches him also, why he follows Sehun around to poke at his camera and admire his shots._

_He’s finding it hard to focus on the art right now._

_Not with Lu Han’s lips pursed in concentration, eyebrows furrowed and hair falling into his, ruffled slightly by the evening wind. He looks beautiful and Sehun has to hold himself back from blurting things out, from spilling compliments that he can never take back._

_“Am I that good looking?”_

_Lu Han’s teasing voice startles Lu Han out of his daze and he jumps back slightly, flushes._

_“I-”_

_“It’s okay,” Lu Han interrupts him, and he’s turning towards Sehun, face too close to his own, eyes soft, sparkling with the reflection of the sunset. “I like you too.”_

_“Oh I-”_

_He’s cut off by soft lips, gentle and insistent as they touch his own. Sehun’s eyes flutter shut as he returns the kiss, and it feels so natural, so right, breathing laboured when they part, despite the innocence of the kiss._

_Lu Han reaches over and ruffles his hair, softer, more intimate than he usually does, eliciting one of Sehun’s shy grins, the crescent moon smile that everyone always grows to love._

_It’s simple, and Sehun’s heart agrees._

\---

“I can’t be with you.”

It’s almost funny, the setting of this. Rain pouring down as they hide in an alleyway off the main street, Lu Han’s bangs a matted mess across his forehead, staring at Sehun. It’s kind of like a dramatic movie, the way Sehun breaks the news, the way he leans forward only to pull back, eyes sad. 

“I talked to Minseok earlier, and he was right,” Sehun continues, fiddling with the wet hem of his shirt. “You’re trying so hard and I’m pretending everything's okay and I just can’t.”

“Okay,” Lu Han answers, and he turns away from Sehun, prepared to wander back out in the rain, walk home slowly, dejectedly. But something snaps, something has him turning back and fixing Sehun with an icy glare. “Can you at least tell me why?”

“I can’t--”

“Sehun when I walk away now I will never speak to you again,” Lu Han spits out, and now he’s actually angry -- seething even -- at Sehun. It hurts more than any other emotion, because he’s never wanted to be angry with Sehun, _never with him._ “So I deserve to know why you left, why you’re like this now, why you won’t fucking talk to me.”

“I’ve told you,” Sehun snaps out, and he’s crying, tears dropping from an already sopping face to a wetter shirt, rain quiet with the sounds of their heartbeats. “I exist only for you. You created me.”

“I don’t understand,” Lu Han snarls. “I don’t understand and you’re making no sense.”

“That drawing,” Sehun says and his voice is quieter, but the words are spat out, as if he can’t breathe. “The first drawing you ever did, the one that’s of me but dated before I met you. It _is_ of me. You created me.”

Sehun stops talking for just a second, catches his breath, looks at Lu Han as if he’s the worst thing to ever step foot in his life. 

“Every time you draw me, it happens in real life. I exist when you draw me, when you want me to exist. You draw me walking in the park, I find myself walking in the park,” Sehun tells him, and it doesn’t make sense, isn’t real, is _crazy_. “You said when you drew me, you imagined your dream boy falling in love with you. I appeared one day, on that sidewalk with memories that shouldn’t exist and I couldn’t help myself from loving you because that’s all I was meant to do. All you ever wanted me to do.”

“Sehun,” Lu Han interrupts, quiet, subdued. “I never made you love me, and even if it felt like I did you don’t need to tell these insane stories to get me to leave. I’ll leave.”

“Don’t leave,” Sehun calls, and it’s desperate, nearly as dramatic as Lu Han himself had once been. “You asked me why and I’m telling you why.”

“Okay,” Lu Han heaves, chest constricting and mind confused. “Okay.”

“When I left,” Sehun starts again, and he sounds as if he can barely get the words out, as if they’re lodged in his throat. “It was because you drew me going on a trip. You imagined me leaving. I was in my room and then suddenly I was at the train station, bags in hand and the knowledge that you had imagined me leaving and never coming back. I got on the train and then I didn’t exist.”

“You didn’t exist?” Lu Han chokes on his words. It’s believable, the tiny details of Lu Han’s imagination, things he’s never told anyone, a photo he’s kept hidden away; not in the ‘Mine’ sketchbook. 

“I ceased being,” Sehun whispers, and he walks close to Lu Han places his hands on his shoulders. “I came back because you drew me with the charcoal pencil. It’s always that one charcoal pencil. You drew me back in the city and suddenly I existed again. I was alive and it was only because you imagined it.”

“I-” Lu Han stutters, back away, unsure, scared of what Sehun is saying; of the truth behind it or the idea that Sehun really has lost his mind. “So you’re like a ghost?”

“But I don’t haunt by choice,” Sehun says, and it’s quieter now than ever before. “I don’t love you by choice, I don’t exist by choice. It’s all because you drew me.”

“I didn’t know,” Lu Han says, and he’s hugging Sehun close to him, burying his nose in Sehun’s shoulders, squeezing painfully. “I didn’t know If I knew I would never do that to you. I would never --”

“I know.”

Sehun is walking away, away from Lu Han and back out into the rain. “It’s not your fault,” He calls over his shoulder. “It’s best if I stay away from you and feel the pain of a love I can’t control alone.”

Lu Han slumps against the alley wall, and cries.

\---

“How do I fix this?”

Sehun knew he would call, knew the phone would ring, crackle, familiar voice whispering through the holes in his ear. 

“You can’t,” Sehun says, and the walls are black, closing in around him. “You can’t fix it. Even if you draw me not loving you anymore I would still remember and I would resent you.”

“That’s better than hurting like this, existing like this.”

“But you would hurt,” Sehun says in near silence. He has a cigarette lit, has the pills ready in his hand, the ones that make him love the soft things, the ones that bring the colour into his life and put him to sleep afterwards. “You would hurt and you would still love me, and after everything I can’t do that to you.”

“I can handle it, I deserve it,” Lu Han sounds stubborn, set, and Sehun is filled with a kind of gratefulness even the charcoal can’t reach. Even if he doesn’t believe, he always tries. 

“You don’t.”

“I-”

“Hang up Lu Han,” Sehun says on an exhale, water in his grip and pills on his tongue. Sleeping aids for those with barren hearts. “Go to sleep.”

The colours on his tiny camera lens look beautiful, so beautiful.

\---

“I used Colours and Seasons because -- because not only do they represent him but they also represent what I don’t have. All of this colour, all of this beauty that bursts from the trees and the sky and the people around me, it’s wonderful.

And it was kind of an escape, a way to capture it all and keep it forever. He created me so that I would love the way the world looked on film, and I do. I love it so much. Almost as much as he loves drawing me.”

\---

_People say goodbye,  
in their own special way_

\---

Lu Han draws Sehun one more time; draws him being free, not remembering himself, every painful thing he doesn’t want.

“He’ll be free,” Lu Han says out loud, shading in the contours of Sehun’s beautiful cheekbones, charcoal cracking in his fingers. “He’ll do what he wants, and he won’t remember me, or us, and that part of his heart it won’t be there. He won’t exist for anyone but himself, not for me, not for anyone. He’ll be Oh Sehun, photographer or maybe not. 

He’ll be who he wants and he’ll love who he wants, and if we ever perhaps meet again, he can choose. He can choose whether he wants me or whether he doesn’t. Whether he knows me or doesn’t.”

Lu Han is crying, tears spilling down his cheeks as he finishes his final drawing, placing it carefully on the tables beside him, looking at the charcoal as if it’s burning his fingers. 

He throws it, melts it in the tiny fireplace and cries. 

Lu Han cries until he has no tears left, cries until he knees ache and his throat burns, until his eyes are flushed red and his heart wants to give out. 

He lets Sehun go, curls up on the floor in his once colourful bedroom, watches a power surge knock the fairy lights out, pulling him into grey. Darkness. 

Spring is ending, but to Lu Han, winter is just beginning.

\---

“I’m drawing you again.”

Sehun sits up slowly, limbs heavy from the aftereffects of the blue pills, the one he takes to drift away every night. Anger creases his vision, sorrow, pain. 

“Why would you do that Lu Han,” He asks, and his voice is choked. It’s never been his fault, and yet now it is. “I thought you would never willingly hurt me.”

“That’s why I’m drawing you again.”

Sehun’s throat is dry, but his eyes are wet, tears spilling quietly, one drop at a time. 

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“You’re sending me away again?” Sehun croaks, and everything is grey. Grey, grey, _grey_ and turning black and nothing is the same ever and he hates it. Hates it. “Making me not exist?”

“You’ll exist,” Lu Han tells him, and he sounds oddly calm, voice a flat line of melancholy. Grey, just like Sehun’s. “You’ll exist, just not for me.”

“What are you going to do?” Sehun whispers, and he can feel the colours through the phone, faint, lively. 

“See, the thing is Sehunnie,” Lu Han continues, and his voice is rising slightly, nervous tangle of tones. “You always say you exist for me, but I exist for you too, you know. And that sounds dramatic and it is, but I exist for you and it’s by choice, and I want you to have that choice too.”

“I don’t get --”

“I love you,” Lu Han interrupts, and his voice cracks, along with all of Sehun’s heart, not just that section of him, but the entire thing, like being stabbed. “I love you, okay? You won’t remember that, but I do.”

Sehun forgets Lu Han’s colour when he hangs up. The grey swirls above him, crawls along the walls and into his crevices, whispering quietly in his ear. 

Sehun remembers Lu Han’s colour when he forgets Lu Han. They’re not Lu Han’s colours anymore, but the world’s colours, dancing around Sehun and into him. 

He’s no longer grey.

\---

_ You took my soul, and wiped it clean. _

\---

**\--- Epilogue**

Normally one would see the seasonal year as ending in Winter; when the trees die, everything grey, white, dull. 

Lu Han’s story, it ends in Autumn; with the school bells and the dropping temperatures, trees shedding their layers to become barren, rows of dead creatures swaying with the wind, but no longer vibrant. 

This is when Lu Han likes to begin his portfolio, likes to take his sketchbook everywhere, draw the life, the hidden secrets, the dark corners of the season. 

He likes to showcase the bright colours, cascading leaves fanning around him, falling onto the canvas of his sketchbook, only to be traced into something beautiful. He usually sits on _the steps_ \-- the ones that were once _their steps_ \-- fingers absently tracing the cracks between faded bricks, the tiniest of smiles jumping across his lips. 

And the thing about memories is that they never really announce their arrival, and they never tell anyone what they're bringing. 

“Aren’t you a little too old to be going to this school?” 

A voice, familiar, haunting, crashing down on Lu Han’s shoulders like a bad memory. His head snaps up, sketchbook falling in shock from his lap, down the steps to land in a mess of bent pages. 

“Shit, sorry,” The voice says, and a boy is skipping down the stairs, retrieving it, dangling it in front of Lu Han playfully. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I--” Lu Han stutters, blushes, acts like he really _is_ old enough to attend a high school. “It’s okay, I was just distracted.”

“Well, what’s your answer?” The boy prods, sitting next to Lu Han on the steps and smiling, gentle and safe. “Unless you actually go here?”

“No, I don’t, I go to the University. I just like to draw here in the mornings, it’s peaceful,” Lu Han says, and he’s proud of himself for sounding coherent, for getting his words out despite the pounding of his heart, the pressure on his chest. “I could ask the same of you?”

“I’m not really sure why I’m here,” The boy laughs, and Lu Han is struck by his beauty, startled by his hair; once silver locks dyed a dazzling rainbow. “I just sort of found myself here at these steps. It’s strange because I’ve never been to this school in my life and yet something feels like home.”

“Like home?” Lu Han asks, confused but hopeful, eyes wide as he leans towards the boy in questioning. 

“As if they’re important,” The boy shrugs, face impassive now. “It happens a lot. Must be one of those creepy past life happenings.”

“It must be,” Lu Han nods, but he trails off, stares at the boy and breathes in deeply. He has one chance. “You’re beautiful.”

“Am I?” The boy grins, playfully now, looks Lu Han up and down. 

“My name’s Sehun,” The boy laughs, and it isn’t condescending; more curious as he looks at Lu Han. "But beautiful works too."

\--- 

_ “In the times of equal days and nights, what I see is my left and right hand, the past and the future, myself and others, as well as the I, who lives in the centre.”_


End file.
